Inspiration, Like a River…

…courses through my veins.  Even in the dead of night, within the coldest of Winter’s embrace, I still find myself dreaming of other worlds.  I awaken, sometimes restless, agitated, as if I know I should be doing anything but lazing beneath cover of sleep.  Voices whisper from the recesses of my imagination, telling me of things I should already know, pushing me to create timeless records of their words, worlds, that they may live eternally in the vast white void that is Word..

I’m helpless to their call, drawn by the power they hold over me, to the power I hold because of them.  I must confess; it’s maddening.  I’m often spiraling out of control, a hopeless, weak, romantic to the idea of being their god.  For are we not, gods?  Writers, creators of worlds, of countless lives, races, creatures, and the rules by which they live?  How far are we, truly, from what it means to bear such their title?

And, for that matter, what if we are the characters of someone else’s story?  Would we know?  Should we care?  Even if the story was once scripted, do we not hold the power to change the next the direction of each chapter?  Even if it’s just the tiniest bit, it’s more than what is given to those whose story WE write.

Or, is it?  I no longer know.  I’m writing of worlds that live within my mind, deep inside of my dreams, of lives that seemingly exist without any of my input.  Alternate realities?  Personalities?  They do not control me, with the exception of pushing me to pen and key.  The only harm they cause to me is through the loss of time, time which is stolen from me as I am driven to tell their tales.

The question remains; are they in control, or am I?  Does it matter?  If we are able to control the direction of our stories, is it not plausible that they exist because they force me to tell theirs?

I often think of the stories I record as those that have already happened, as if they are in the past.  That, perhaps, they may have once been in sync with our OWN time, at the moment I first thought of them, but as my life continued to put them on hold, they continued from the point I last left them.  It’s through this line of reasoning which I have convinced myself of how I know where the story will go, from the very beginning, to the final end.

So then, it exists.  Or, rather, it existed, and those who are the focus of the story demand me to share it through my loved labors of words, and their structures, in the best way I am able.

Sometimes I am away from them for too long.   Life has a funny way of demanding one’s attention, doesn’t it?  And, if I’m not careful, I may find myself forgetting some of the details.  Maybe I forgot to take notes about where I last wrote, or perhaps I have spent more time working on another’s story, and the lines have become blurred.

In these instances, it takes a little longer to return to them, to their stories, and I often find myself stuck, glued in to sticky mire that is often mistaken as an impassible block.  However, like anything that has become trapped in the depths, the trick is knowing that there is always a way out.  One must search, one must use a little ingenuity, and with perseverance, freedom is but a few words away.

I find myself inspired, but not by my life around me.  I am drawn into the the stories within me.

Even now they are calling my name, whispering fervently for my attention, a plea I shall no longer ignore.

I can feel them clawing at my consciousness.

The desire to let them in, to write, is…

…it’s…

…intoxicating!

The Morelli Bros. (Chapter II, Part V)

“Luigi, No!”

As his brother lost his footing and fell before the face of the deadly creature, he nearly lost his own as well.  His right foot came down upon the crown of the next and slipped, causing him to fall in that direction.  Even as he felt his weight shift, he tucked his shoulder, put his chin to his chest, and rolled, coming back to his feet a safe distance away.

His heart thundered in his chest, fear replacing the exhilaration that had been there only moments before.  As he kept a cautious eye on the advancing creatures, of which there were still too many, he desperately scanned the area he had last seen his brother.

“Ha-ha,” he yelled as he jumped once more into the air.  It was an effective, if but a little gross, way of travel, but it was quicker then trying to dodge these malevolent things.  One, two, three more were squished as he bounced from one to the next, the last closing the distance between him and Luigi.

The latter was crawling backwards, frantically crab-walking away from three of the bug-eyed mushrooms, with a terrified look in his eyes.

“M-m-m-Mario,” he yelled.  The Goombas were nearly upon him.  The foul smell they emitted, a cross between rotten vegetation and death, permeated his nostrils, choking out his next words.  His legs trembled, and he had run out of room.  Though he continued to scramble away from his approaching doom, something strong prevented him from continuing.

He suddenly found his breath, and what came next was one of the loudest screams to ever pass his lips.  It was born of terror, and it passed through barriers that would normally prevent his vocal cords from climbing so high.  His was a shriek, high and feminine, and for a brief moment, it gave his enemy pause.  Just enough so that his brother, who was standing just behind him, could lift him to his feet, turn him around, and lay one across the side of his face.

The smack brought Luigi back to his senses, and though it stung, he was the opposite of upset.  His brother, ever the level-headed of the two, pulled him towards a small clearing, a place in this meadow of death where the creatures had yet to unleash their deadly slime.

“Are you good,” Mario asked him, his hands on both of Luigi’s shoulders.

“I-I think so,” his brother answered.  “But did you have to smack me?”

“No time for that now,” Mario answered.  “We need to come up with a plan.”

He looked around somberly, and despite being as afraid of the creatures as his brother had so recently displayed, he fought to keep his feelings buried.  He needed to stay focused if they were going to get out of this alive.  Not only out of this situation, but he had to also find some way to rescue the girl.

He briefly scanned the creatures before them.  While, at first, it had looked like they were hopelessly outnumbered, he was able to determine that only a dozen more remained.  They were slow, but determined, and their advance had continued without pause.  There were only moments before the two of them would be embattled once more.

“We have to finish them,” he said breathlessly.

“Mario, I-”

“-can do this,” he finished for Luigi.  “Focus, brother!  There’s no way out of this, unless we work together!”

 

 

Trespasser (Part XXX)

John stared absently at the scabs on the backs of his knuckles, and wondered how they had gotten there.  There was some residual pain, as if they had been previously injured, but he couldn’t recall how, if when, that would have happened.  It was as if he was peering through a thick fog, and his memory was the shadow hidden beneath its damp embrace.

His house was empty, his wife and daughter having long since gone to her parents. For what reason, he also couldn’t remember, only that he had only spoken to them once, since.  She had been angry with him, accusing him of being hurtful during their last conversation, but like the mystery of his hands, this, too, was something he couldn’t remember doing.

He should be angry.  Shouldn’t he?  It felt as if there was something he should be remembering, something that felt more important than the two things most recently on his mind.

He looked around as if in a daze, seeing his surroundings for what felt like the first time today.  He was at the dining room table, upon which were the remains of his last several meals.  He didn’t remember eating recently, but the evidence couldn’t be denied.  Not by him, nor by the several dozen flies that flew from plate to plate, tasting his decaying leftovers.

The room smelled, ripe from the lack of cleanliness, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.  If he had been hungry before, that feeling was long since gone.  He made a mental note to clean before his family got home as he turned and walked into the living room.  The thought was forgotten before he’d finished passing through the door.

His living room was in no better shape.  Apparently, he had taken a few meals in here as well.  Three plates, each with the remains of forgotten meals upon them, sat upon the coffee table, along with an empty pizza box.  But was that there before?  Hadn’t he had friends over?

He couldn’t remember.

It also didn’t matter right now.  He would have to clean that up later, he thought as he lay down on his couch.  He wrinkled his nose as he noticed another funky smell in the air, but before he could identify it, he had been overcome with sleep.

– – – – – – – – – –

Hours later, (or was it minutes?), he shot up off of the couch, shrieking.   His skin was clammy, and his hair stood out wildly on the right side of his head, but none of these things he would notice until the fear had run its course, nearly two minutes later.

As the dreams faded from memory, they took with them the feelings they had inspired, leaving him to wonder what it was that had frightened him.  He looked around as if in shock, struggling to regain his bearings as he finally realized he was awake.  The room was darker, and the light behind the curtains fell closer to the wall than it did when he lay down, suggesting it was now late in the afternoon.

“…tho gooooood!”

The familiar, nasally voice, of someone he knew screamed at him from the shadows, and he screamed as well.  He screamed as he fell to the floor.  He screamed as he curled into a fetal position.  He screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed, until he could hear the laughter no longer.